


Gold to Aery Thinness Beat

by violet_strange



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Complete, M/M, Mpreg, Sherstrade, Why does Sherlock always break Lestrade's heart?, soulbond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_strange/pseuds/violet_strange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes brilliantly solves another case, but it doesn't redeem his past behaviour in the eyes of his brother. The solution? Mycroft arranges a marriage between Sherlock and the ambitious Inspector Greg Lestrade.</p><p>Soulbonding AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Our two souls therefore, which are one,_   
>  _Though I must go, endure not yet_   
>  _A breach, but an expansion,_   
>  _Like gold to aery thinness beat._
> 
>  
> 
> In this world, couples need to be connected through a soulbond before they can have children. A bond can arise spontaneously, minutes after a first meeting, or they can develop after years in a relationship. Wedding rings are unnecessary because bonded partners develop a tattoo-like mark that stretches from the index finger to the heart. Most of the designs resemble branches or vines or flowers, but some are simple lines or geometric shapes. Some people say the thickness of the leaves indicates the strength of the bond, but this is hotly disputed by those whose marks are scarcely the width of a pencil. It is possible to have sex with a partner one is not bonded to, but it is impossible for it to result in a pregnancy.
> 
> Sherlock is 17 when this story begins and Greg is 30. The age difference isn't considered unusual in families like Sherlock and Mycroft's. As a man from a respectable, middle class background, Greg has more of a problem with it, but he gets over it pretty quickly. Perhaps, in the end, his fears were well-founded.

_Somewhere in Shropshire..._

The suspects gathered in the drawing room trembled as Sherlock Holmes entered. Even those who had scoffed at the impertinent schoolboy who had gone into detective work after leaving his elite boarding school under a cloud, even they were discomfited by how their transgressions were laid bare under his sharp, blue gaze.

“When the lights went out, Hodgkins had just brought in the cocktail Princess Flora requested.” Sherlock reconstructed the crime for his distressed audience. Lady Helena glared at the princess. Cocktails, especially ones made from pastel liqueurs, were not a suitable after dinner drink and ordering them as if in a restaurant was a sign of perverse, common, wilfulness. 

“Tristan and Poppy were at the piano, playing a duet of some kind.” Something in Sherlock’s tone made Tristan feel insecure about his musical skills. “Violet and Lady Helena sat on the sofa gossiping about Princess Flora’s dipsomania. Christopher Quentin Clarence, stood right where I am standing, listening to his wife at the piano, their bond vibrating with her attraction to another.” 

The bond, the physical and mental connection that tied a couple together for life, was sacred. Proximity strengthened it, which is why it was considered extremely rude to flirt when your partner was in the room, especially when an estate the size of Clarensis Park contained many follies, grottoes, copses, and the ruins of the old house, all suitable for activities which might require mental and physical privacy. 

Poppy began to cry. Everyone watched Tristan as he offered her his handkerchief. “My husband never cared, even when he should have known I wanted him to be,” she sobbed. “Sometimes I wished C.Q. would be a little jealous, but he wasn’t. Why didn’t he know that’s what I wanted?”

“A weak bond,” Lady Helena announced. “That’s why the two of you could never have children.”

“We do have children, twins.” Poppy wiped the tears from her eyes and glared at Lady Helena.

“As it turns out, you did not kill your husband, so your twins and your bond are irrelevant. Your husband died because of what he knew.”

“What did he know?” Poppy gasped.

“Your husband had discovered a secret about someone in this room. The murderer was racing against time, wanted to make sure he died before he could share the secret with you. The lights went out, the cord from the curtains pulled tight around his neck. Violet and Princess Flora screamed. Violet, In the midst of your histrionics, did you notice anything unusual?”

“Yes, I did,” she said quietly. Violet appeared to be lost in her memories of that night. “I reached out for Lady Helena’s hand, and it wasn’t there.” 

“It wasn’t there because Lady Helena has been dead for two years! The woman you see before you is a fraud!” Sherlock was gratified by the screams and faintings his words caused. Lady Helena started to laugh, a wild, maniacal laugh. 

Sherlock pointed at her. “Inspector Lestrade, arrest this woman.” 

Finally Inspector Lestrade was allowed to emerge from behind the curtain Sherlock had insisted he hide behind. His back was a little sore from standing still for so long, and the dust in the curtains had bothered his allergies. There was something about Sherlock that made Lestrade want to indulge his whims. Like the local police who had been the first to investigate, Lestrade had believed Clarence had been murdered by his butler, Hodgkins, who stood to inherit a tidy sum. Sherlock had shown him the errors in his logic, had proved it was impossible for Hodgkins to neatly set down the drinks tray, sprint over the curtains, grab a cord, strangle Clarence, and return to the drinks, all in the brief moment of darkness. 

Lestrade touched his neck and remembered how Sherlock had stood behind him as he explained how he thought the murderer had moved. Sherlock appeared slim, almost delicate, but Lestrade had felt the strength in his arms as he demonstrated how the murderer had held the victim. Sherlock's breath against his neck had been hot and demanding, and if the situation had continued, Lestrade would have done something unprofessional.  

“You'll never catch me!” The false Lady Helena dropped her lorgnette and burst through the French windows. Lestrade jogged after her, confident in his ability to catch up with an elderly woman with sedentary habits. Unfortunately, Sherlock had neglected to tell him that the false Lady Helena was actually a young conman who was very skilled with theatrical make-up, so the chase took him almost halfway to Shrewsbury.

It was one more headline-grabbing arrest for Inspector Lestrade. 

A respectable private life was an important factor when climbing the hierarchy at Scotland Yard. Marital status and the strength of the bond between the partners was not supposed to be a factor, but it was. A less ambitious man would have rested after making Detective Inspector before thirty, but not Lestrade. Work wasn’t enough, he had to do some social climbing as well. The matchmaker had dropped off a new bundle of files for his perusal: young women from the Great families. His humble roots prevented him from aspiring to the daughters who would inherit fortunes, or the ones who had brilliant careers of their own, but for a woman without a fortune who was backed by a powerful family, Lestrade would be an excellent match. 

“None of those women will be quite right for you.” Lestrade looked up at the unexpected visitor in his office. He was the same age, maybe a year or two younger than himself. There was something familiar about him, and Lestrade wondered if they had met before. 

“I believe you know my brother, Sherlock. The newspaper articles about that dreadful business at Clarensis Park didn’t mention him, but we both know who really solved the case.” The corners of Mycroft Holmes’ mouth turned up in what was almost a smile. 

“What do you want?” 

“You want to marry into one of the Great families. My brother and I are members of one of the junior branches, and we are connected to one of the Great families of France through our grandmother, although you would never know it from my brother’s behaviour. Getting expelled from a boarding school or two is expected, but my brother caused so much damage at his last school, no one will take him. He may not show it, but he likes you and may even respect you a little.” 

“You didn’t answer my question. What do you want?” 

“I’ve done my research. Your career has been impressive, that’s what attracted my brother’s attention. You have above average intelligence and a strong will. I believe bonding with someone like you will steady my brother, calm his self-destructive tendencies, keep his genius from burning out.” 

“He’s too young.” Lestrade didn’t know what else to say. 

“Sherlock will be eighteen in a few months. You can start the bonding process now, and be married on his birthday. I will personally ensure that anyone of any importance in the government is at your wedding. There’s a flat on Baker Street that Sherlock has been wanting for quite some time. Once you are settled and I can be assured he won’t be using it as some kind of underground pharmacy, it will be yours.” 

“What does Sherlock think?” 

“He is willing to try.”

 _I would imagine we’re physically compatible, but definitely not mentally compatible, and I seriously doubt I’m emotionally compatible with anyone_ , was what Sherlock had really said. Mycroft had argued that sometimes it took couples years for basic compatibility to evolve into a bond.  _Well, isn’t it time you gave me “the talk” then, birds and the bees, or bees and the bees in this case. You are my guardian._

Sherlock had smirked at his brother's discomfort, but Mycroft had risen to the challenge.  _When two people are highly compatible with each other, they form a bond, which allows them to have babies. When two men bond, usually the younger partner becomes pregnant. There are rumours the stress of pregnancy can lower a man's intelligence, so perhaps a couple of babies will cure your intellectual pride._

Sherlock was already at the flat when Lestrade arrived. He was seated in the window, watching the patrons entering and exiting from the café below. 

“Lots of students today, a few undercover policemen. It's amazing what you can tell from just their shoes. You can dispense with the awkward greetings. Nothing is going to happen between us.” Sherlock sounded very self-assured.

“Awkward greetings are my favourite part of a conversation. How do you know nothing will happen between us?”

“From your boring jacket and your hair.” Sherlock turned away from the window and focused on Lestrade. “When you go on your arranged dates, you wear your one bespoke suit and get a proper shave beforehand. You came here today to tell me that you are flattered by the offer, but I am too young for you.” 

“True and true.” Even though Sherlock was an inch taller, his messy dark curls and pale skin gave him an aura of youth and innocence, which made the stories about his wild behaviour seem like they couldn't possibly be true. Lestrade had been the one to interrogate Sherlock after the last chemical experiment had gone wrong, so he knew Sherlock's looks were deceiving.

“My brother has all these ideas about what I should be doing with my life. He's right—I have been wasting my time on unworthy projects, but that has changed and I have created my own course of study, far more useful than what I would be doing in school. The problem is money. Until my twentieth birthday, I can't touch my inheritance without Mycroft's permission and he insists that I live with him, a situation which is miserable for us both and one of the many reasons he wants to foist his responsibilities on to you. However, if we live together here, he will not only pay for this flat, he will also give me my allowance. It would mean delaying your search for a bride by two years, but once I inherit, I will give you the cottage in Sussex.” 

“Is that what you really want?” Lestrade had never seen Sherlock looking so serious. 

“I want my freedom, Lestrade. I know what I can accomplish if given the chance.” 

“You need to talk to your brother. Once he sees you've changed, he'll trust you to live on your own. I'm not going to pretend to be in a relationship with you. Selling two years of my life in exchange for a house, that's prostitution, isn't it? Time is the one thing you can never get back.” 

“How upright of you. No wonder my brother thought you would make a good minder. Perhaps I should have pretended to be seriously interested in pursuing a bond. That would have bought me at least a couple of months of freedom.” 

“Yeah, if you were interested in pursuing a bond with me, I would have stayed for as long as you wanted. Take care of yourself, Sherlock.” Lestrade headed for the door. 

“Wait, are you saying you would want to bond with me?” 

“Yes, I am. And the other day, when we were walking around Clarensis Park, I thought you were attracted to me as well.” 

“Bonds are built out of more than physical attraction. I don't want to bond with anyone—the idea of someone else's mind touching my own is grotesque.” 

“That's a little conceited isn't it? Even geniuses find partners, when it comes to bonding, intellectual compatibility is a matter of sympathy, not intelligence. Why don't you want to bond with anyone? I always thought it sounded nice—someone who is always there for you, don't have to worry about being lonely.”

“I'm not lonely.” 

“Maybe I am,” Lestrade said. Sherlock stared into Lestrade's warm brown eyes. He'd noted their attractiveness before, but hadn't seen their sincerity. He'd misjudged Lestrade badly, thinking his quest for a wife was only about money and social position. If that was all he had wanted, he would have married any one of the well-bred girls who were eager to share his bed. Lestrade was one of those romantics who saw the bond as about something more than having children. 

Sherlock took Lestrade's hand, and a spark of electricity danced between them. He'd never felt anything like it before. “Greg, is this—” 

It was terrifying and exhilarating, like being swept up into the sky and watching the ground fall away. Sherlock started to panic as the spark melted into a slow heat which threatened to consume them both. 

“You don't have to accept this if you don't want to, Sherlock.” Greg gently withdrew his hand from Sherlock's. 

Sherlock moaned and threw himself into Greg's arms. Part of his mind was screaming at him to run, while the rest of him wanted to stay, to revel in this unexpected fire. His left hand grasped for Greg's and they were silent as the bond fused their souls into a beautiful completeness. 

Greg's mind was there, open before him, and it wasn't the forlorn attic crowded with uselessness he'd imagined, it was deep, dark water with sunlight dancing over the surface. Sherlock wanted to dive in, live every memory, the golden summers, the cold winters spent with his sleeves pulled over his hands, long train rides, hours spent scrambling over the rocks, hours spent waiting, the cold winters spent indoors with books, the golden springs when everything felt new, the joys and unhappiness of a childhood that was not his own. 

He didn't know if he was embracing Greg, or if he was the one being held. It didn't matter. They were together.

“Take your shirt off,” Sherlock finally murmured. He watched as the visible sign of their bond crawled across his partner's skin, delicate vines swirling in a pattern unique to their bond.  _It's beautiful_ , Sherlock thought and he felt Greg agree. 

They awoke a few hours later, still clothed, tangled in each other's arms. Sherlock ran his hand over Greg's arm and thrilled at how Greg's pleasure reflected and enhanced his own. 

 _Sherlock._ It was a small whisper inside his head. It didn't feel strange or grotesque. It felt like the missing element that should have been there all along.  _What do we do now?_

Sherlock traced the pattern of their bond over Greg's skin, first with his fingers, then with his tongue. He could feel the pattern on his own arm respond. 

“We need to talk,” Greg said. He stroked Sherlock's soft curls. Greg hadn't expected the bond to feel like this. He'd never wanted to be with anyone, to know anyone like he knew Sherlock. 

“Do we?” Sherlock said. "I can think of other ways to keep your mouth busy." 

 _I've never had sex with someone I was bonded to—I don't know what it means—I don't want to hurt you, especially since you've never had sex before._  

 _You can do whatever you want._  Sherlock's thoughts felt like his own.  _Our pleasure and our pain will be shared._  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this story is from Donne's "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning". In this world, it is commonly recited at weddings between bonded partners, which is odd because it is about lovers forced to part, not about those who are coming together.

The delicate clinking of cutlery upon fine china was the only sound that ever disrupted the Diogenes Club’s silence. It was difficult for Mycroft to keep his eyes off the design on his brother’s left hand. He hadn’t expected his brother to actually bond with Greg Lestrade, the best he had hoped for was a few months of peace while his brother stayed under the inspector’s watchful eyes. He wished he had agreed to meet his brother in a place where they could actually talk. In the past, the prohibition against conversation had kept their relationship from completely disintegrating.

Mycroft nodded in the direction of the stairwell. They could talk in the Stranger’s Room upstairs. Most of the time Sherlock would ignore this silent cue, storming away as soon as the meal was finished, but today he meekly followed his brother up the stairs.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you. I’m happy to see my instincts about you and Greg Lestrade were correct.”

Sherlock touched the design on his left hand before pulling on his gloves. “Thank you. We still need to discuss business. You promised Greg a society wedding, I hope you aren’t thinking the money for that will come out of my inheritance.”

“It will be my gift to you. If you apply for the license on your birthday, the soonest you can be married is the end of January.”

“Greg and I were thinking of a summer wedding.”

Mycroft realised the odd pauses in the conversation were the result of Sherlock transmitting their conversation to Greg, who was presumably at work. It was strange they had already learned to use their bond to share more than vague feelings.

“You would make a delightful June bride, but if your fiancé wants a guest list crowded with titles, February or early March, before the beginning of the Season is a better choice. Also, by June, you might be visibly _enceinte_ , and no Holmes has ever waddled down the aisle.”

“We’re not having children. Greg wants me to apply for special admission to Oxford next year and he wants to add another pip to his sleeve before he’s thirty-five.”

“I see. Are you expecting me to pull some favours to make all this happen.”

“Perhaps you can commit some flashy murders and Greg can arrest you.” It was obviously Greg’s joke, not Sherlock’s.

“Tell your inspector he’s very amusing. I’ll see to the church and the guest list. Where are you planning on going for your honeymoon?”

“Well…” Sherlock looked like he was trying not to laugh.

Mycroft waited patiently for his brother to stop the telepathic flirting. It was rude, but to be expected at this stage and he wished he had met Sherlock at the flat instead of at his club. The Diogenes was less than a mile from Scotland Yard, while Sherlock’s flat was over two miles. Feelings and impressions could travel that far, but not words.

“He’s walking through the park right now. I told him I was going to the Library after meeting you, so I’ll meet him there. Venice. If we get married in February, it will be carnival season and I can see Greg in a mask.”

A cold breeze stirred through St. James Park as Lestrade hurried through to meet Sherlock. It had been a slow day at work, which suited him. He had needed the time to catch up on paperwork and coherent thought was impossible with Sherlock’s presence radiating through their bond. Everyone said the feeling faded, so he decided not to worry too much about the long term effects on his work. Most people took at least a week away from the world after bonding, so he felt showing up for work every day reflected well on him, even if it was difficult to concentrate.

Sherlock met Greg outside the Diogenes, physical presence increasing their mutual happiness.

“You smell like Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said. He wrapped his arms around Greg and nuzzled his cheek affectionately. “Try to read my mind.”

Greg cautiously reached out to Sherlock. Sherlock’s mind was like a beehive, fierce buzzing, terrifyingly organised activity. Ideas, information, connections snapped around him. Suddenly, it went silent. Greg pulled back from Sherlock, startled.

Sherlock looked triumphant. “Now that I can do that, it’s safe for us to be together.”

“How did you do that? Why?”

“You said we couldn’t have sex until the intensity of our bond stabilised. This should keep us from losing ourselves completely.” Sherlock’s lowered his voice to throaty whisper. “Unless we want to.”

It took Greg every last bit of self-control he possessed not to take Sherlock in the taxi that whisked them back to their flat. Sherlock looked cool and composed, but Greg could feel his feverish lust, how Sherlock was imagining what it would be like to be under Greg, to have Greg inside him.

_I’ve been practising, Greg. You know that I have. Using my fingers while thinking of you, preparing myself for you._

The taxi’s slow crawl up Regent Street and through Marylebone was torture.

_You want to pull down my trousers and fuck me on the floor, and you want to carry me into the bedroom and make love to me. Which is it going to be?_

“Which do you want, Sherlock?” Greg was surprised by his ability to still speak coherently.

_I don’t know._

Sherlock started undressing as soon as the door closed behind them.  He whimpered when Greg knelt down and took him in his mouth. He’d never experienced such pleasure before, and Greg wanted him, how Greg wanted him, Greg’s need and his own pleasure spiraled between them until his lover’s name was the only word he could say, the only word he could think.

He felt like he was going to collapse, but Greg was there, supporting him.

“You’re too tall for me to carry into the bedroom.” Greg smile was warm. _Are you okay?_

“That was amazing,” Sherlock said. They ignored their discarded clothes and moved into the bedroom. It was beyond what either of them had imagined. Sherlock was inexperienced and greedy, but Greg managed to stop himself whenever he felt the slightest pain twinge through their bond. This made Sherlock even more demanding, he moaned and bit Greg’s hand, dragged his teeth across the leaves and vines that entwined them both.

Sherlock woke up a little after midnight. Greg’s sleeping face looked soft and relaxed in the dim light. He ignored the flickers of lust, snuggled in next to Greg and fell back asleep quickly. He woke up again a little after three. He felt like his stomach was on fire, the middle of his being felt raw and painful. He quickly got up and locked himself in the shower. The cool water made him feel a little better.

He could feel Greg waking up in the other room. _Go back to sleep_ , he urged and concentrated on shutting down the connection between them.

“Good morning.” Greg ran his fingers through Sherlock’s dark hair, still a little damp from the shower.

Sherlock tried to curl up against him. “Don’t go to work today.” _Stay with me._

“I can’t.”

Sherlock moaned a little and licked the design on Greg’s arm. _Go in late then._ Fully awake, he climbed on top of Greg and stared into his eyes. Despite their physical closeness, Greg couldn’t tell what Sherlock was thinking, he could only sense the fierce, terrifying intensity of Sherlock’s mind. _Can't you feel how I want you?_

Before going to his own office, Greg put in a request to take the rest of the week off. Even though his body still ached with the intensity of the orgasm they’d shared, something had been wrong. Sherlock’s desire had been overwhelming, but underneath it was fear. He’d felt it, a queasy glimmer, when he kissed Sherlock goodbye.

When he finally returned to the flat after work, a small suitcase and some clothing were missing. Greg knew Sherlock was gone. _What happened? I know somehow I hurt you, but I don’t understand how or why._ He felt a spark in the corner of his mind, Sherlock was somewhere far away, but alive and well.

Mycroft Holmes visited the next day. “He’s asked me for a cash advance on his allowance. You’ve bonded with him, so it’s your decision.”

“Give it to him.”

“He knows receiving any part of his inheritance is contingent on his remaining in residence either with you or with myself.”

“Do you think I want to force him to live with me? I’m not you. I want him to be happy.” Greg looked awful, like he hadn’t slept and wouldn’t be sleeping for a very long time.

“Do you think giving him his freedom will make him happy?”

“What do you mean?”

“The incident at his last school, the one where you two first met, that was not the worst of what he’s done. Did he ever tell you why he left the school before that?”

“He didn’t need to tell me.” Greg held up his left hand. “I knew. Give him the money and tell him to send me a postcard.”

The first postcard arrived a month later, a photo of the Brandenburg Gate at night. _I’ve been living in Berlin for the past few weeks, but will soon be moving to Heidelberg to study with a professor there. I will be home as soon as I can._

Ten years passed. Greg threw himself into his work and discovered he loved it. It was exhausting, but on the good days, he could see how his work helped the people of London. He refused two promotions, knowing he wouldn’t be asked again. On the bad days, and there were many, he would take out the postcards Sherlock continued to send. Venice. Barcelona. Zagreb. Manchester. Town Hall on one side, a message that soothed his broken heart on the other. Mycroft occasionally sent him newspaper clippings: the consulting detective solves another case in Paris, a case in St. Petersburg, New York, London.

Sherlock was back in London. For the first time in years, Greg could feel Sherlock’s presence as he moved about the city.

_You know where to find me._

Sherlock was already at the flat when Lestrade arrived. He was seated in the window, watching the  patrons entering and exiting from the café below.

“My first month in Heidelberg, I expected to see you every time I turned around. I thought you would come get me,” he said.

“It was your decision to leave, so it had to be your decision to come back.”

Sherlock didn’t look the same, and Greg felt a little foolish for expecting that he would. Ten years had taken away the softness from his face and added lines to the corners of his eyes. His self-assured confidence no longer seemed like a mannerism, it fit him as well as his stylish suit.

“Thank you.”

Greg took a step closer to Sherlock. “Your brother asked me, _do you think giving him his freedom will make him happy?_ I thought about it and the answer was yes. You said it when you left that school, you said it again the afternoon we bonded. You wanted the freedom to discover what you could do. I knew that, but I kept making plans for us. They were my plans, but I called them ours and the only time you really asked me for something, I said no.”

“I asked you not to go to work because I wanted you to stay in bed with me.”

“If I had said yes…”

The sudden vulnerability in Sherlock’s posture broke Greg’s resolve and he crossed the room to take Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock buried his face in Greg’s shirt and cautiously unlocked the memories he’d been carrying.

He’d been afraid that night, pain twisting through him, knowing his body was preparing itself for pregnancy. The companionship he’d dreamt of while watching his lover sleep, would never happen. He’d remembered his brother’s words, _a couple of babies will cure you_ , and his terrible fear was that it would be true. The physical pain had been bad, but its absence the next day had been even more frightening. His body had decided it was ready.

“My body was responding to your desire for children. You said that you wanted me to complete my education and choose any career I wanted, but that’s not how you felt. And I wanted to please you.” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible. “I’d planned to come back once my body returned to normal.”

“Does this mean you want to try again?”

_Yes. If you’ll have me._

Greg hoped Sherlock could feel how much he’d been wanting this reunion. _Time, we can never get our time back, but we have all the future._

“A friend of mine is a doctor, we worked together to make something that should keep me from getting pregnant.” He sat up so he could look at Greg. “I haven’t taken it yet.” He caught Greg’s left hand and kissed the vines that marked their bond. Greg could feel Sherlock’s desire and his own, slow burning flames desperately seeking each other’s strength.

“Why are you so tall? Definitely can’t carry you to the bedroom now.”

_There’s still the floor._ Sherlock laughed as Greg pulled him to his feet.

A few nights later, Greg woke up at midnight to find his bed empty. Sherlock was awake, and he felt the same queasy fear he had sensed from Sherlock all those years ago, and the fierceness of Sherlock’s mind without the comforting stream of Sherlock’s thoughts.

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, staring up at nothing in particular. “I thought you might wake up, so I put the kettle on,” he said.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m fine really. Absolutely terrified, but fine.” He moved his legs so Greg could sit down. “I will probably remain terrified until the baby comes. I’ve heard it gets worse after that.”

“Are you…”

“Maybe. Yes, I think so. You were very athletic earlier.”

Greg settled with his head in Sherlock’s lap. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

_Yes, it was._

_You’re right. It was…_ Sherlock sighed as the memories washed over them. Greg rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s thigh.

_Not yet. Let’s stay like this for a while._

“Would you like to hear about some cases? I don’t have any open right now that would interest you, but a colleague of mine in Surrey--”

“It was the butler.”

“How did you know which case--”

“Really, Greg, the newspapers have been very indiscreet. You might want to look into that because I think you’ll find someone in Surrey is getting paid off. Anyway, your colleague has dismissed the butler as a suspect because he won’t gain financially and the working environment seemed harmonious. Tell your colleague the butler was having an affair with the financier’s mistress and they were planning on running away together to California to open a school for butlers in Hollywood. Real estate records, flights, they’re all there. And there’s another case I’ve been meaning to talk to you about as well…”

Greg felt his own mind sharpen as Sherlock described connections he never would have glimpsed. They were both afraid, but the future in front of them was worth all the struggles of the past. Sherlock stopped describing the failings of the Surrey police, and kissed Greg's forehead. "We'll be able to feel it soon," he said, before returning to his previous subject.

Soon. Greg loved the promise in that word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story. Comments, concrit, kudos, all are very much appreciated.


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